


Side B: While the young, they wait alone

by ANTchan



Series: My Head is an Animal [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate S2, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Barely Canon Compliant, Character Growth, Developing Relationship, M/M, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5039572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANTchan/pseuds/ANTchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter’s death was supposed to be the end of it. They were supposed to go their separate ways, supposed to ignore Derek’s new Pack as best they could. But with a reptilian nightmare and an army of hunters arriving at their doorsteps, that becomes difficult. And if they’re going to live through this, they need to find common ground. Even in the most unexpected of places.</p><p>An s2 McHaleinski AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is the companion to Side A of this series, and runs mostly parallel to that story. Rather than go through all of Side A and then Side B, I've decided to work on the chapters in chronological order. I'll do my best to make things readable however you want to do go about it, though! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! Happy reading!
> 
> It's also unbeata'd, and anon commenting has been disabled.

****

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

_Before:  
Side A, Ch2_

_His son looks dead on his feet. That’s the first thing John notices after coming through the door._

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

 

The world swims back into fuzzy, pain-lined focus; which is the worst thing Stiles can think of. It feels like he’d _just_ gotten to sleep, after tossing and turning in mind-numbing pain for who knows how long. The only aware part of his brain makes a desperate wish to go back to sleep, before the his body remembers the bone-deep cold. Before the icy pain makes it hard to move again. His body doesn’t listen. With every passing second Stiles gets dragged further into consciousness. “Nooo…” he groans. Whimpers, really.

“ _Shhh._ ”

“Mmn? Whazzi’?” Stiles is… warm. He’s warm and cozy and… not hurting. In fact it’s a little hard to feel anything other than warmth and like he’s encased in molasses. Like his skull is full of fluff and not brain matter.

Wait.

“D’r’k?”

“Shut up, Stiles.” Yeah, that’s Derek. Derek’s in his room. Being extremely grumpy. Again. It takes all his strength to even crack open his eyes. And when he does, Derek is a dark, blurry shape kneeling beside his bed. The world is tipped sideways and unfocused, but Stiles can barely make out the hand resting on his arm. His fingers barely twitch when he tries to move them. And he can’t… exactly feel his arm. It’s not the alarming dead weight like the kanima venom, though. Just… tingly and warm and _odd._ Like his arm has fallen asleep without the threat of pins and needles.

“W’cha doin’?” he slurs. He _really_ wants to sleep.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep, Stiles.”

And that, he wants to obey that. He definitely wants to obey that. Sleep sounds wonderful. If Derek wants to sit there and be creepy all night, well… he can go ahead and do that. Stiles nuzzles into his pillow, breathing a sigh. He’s just relaxing back into a comfortable doze when Derek’s voice washes over him.

“...Thanks. For coming back for me. For not thinking I’m a monster.”

His eyes flutter, but don’t quite manage to open. “Y’re not a… not a m’nst’r…”

He’s asleep before he finishes the sentence.

\-----------------------------------------

It’s his phone blaring _Bark at the Moon_ by his ear that wakes him up next. He jumps before his brain even comes online, and regrets it. His entire body _throbs_ , a lightning strike of pain that shoots all the way down to his toes before he collapses back with a pathetic whine. “Ffffuck,” he hisses. Stiles wants nothing more than to shut his phone up and just go back to sleep, where he was warm and comfortable and not in pain.

But that’s Scott’s ringtone. And with hunters and kanimas running around, there’s at least a 40% chance that something _else_ has happened during the night. And another 30% chance that Scott’s forgotten their algebra assignment. He cracks open an eye, squinting at the blurry numbers on his alarm clock, and is swallowed up by a particular brand of hopelessness at what he sees there.

He blindly swipes at the accept button, and brings the phone to his ear. “Does being a werewolf make you a _morning person?_ ” he gripes. “It’s not even 5 AM, Scott!”

 _“Sorry, sorry. I just woke up too.”_ But Scott doesn’t sound like he’s just woken up. Stiles has heard that countless times. He knows what Scott sounds like when his voice is thick and dozy with sleep. This is Disturbed Scott. This is Panicked Scott, with his breath coming quiet and fast, his voice just slightly screechy.

“Scott?”

_“I think… no, I **know** Derek was in my room last night. I can smell him, Stiles. He was here.”_

Stiles frowns. “You okay?”

Scott lets out a harsh breath on the other end of the line. _“Yeah. Yeah, just… it feels weird that he was in my space. Like I need to get rid of his scent in here. This whole wolf thing is so weird, dude. Why did he think he needed to be in here when I was **sleeping?”**_

He almost answers with something flippant - with something depreciating about Derek’s creeper tendencies, when the night before comes back to him. “Uh…” he mumbles. “He was over here too, actually.”

 _“He was?!”_ There’s a distinctly not-quite-human growl in the question. Stiles huffs into the phone. _Werewolves._ How is this his life now?

“Chill, dude. I woke up. Talked to him a bit. Uh…” Stiles vaguely remembers the words “thank you” and “not a monster” in that conversation. Which… no. Stiles has no idea how to handle that this early in the morning. Or ever. “I don’t remember much of it.” Can werewolves hear someone lying over the phone? “He did this really weird thing with his hand…”

No. Wait.

“I mean he touched me and then everything felt really nice--”

That… isn’t any better.

“ _Shit._ Not like-- I mean he was touching my arm and then like… everything stopped hurting?”

But Scott doesn't laugh at him. Scott doesn’t speak for a minute and a half. Stiles knows, because he watches the alarm clock beside his head. _“You were hurt?”_ he says at last, voice hushed.

“Ah, shit, uh-- ...no?”

_“ **Stiles.** Did that thing hurt you last night?”_

“The freaky lizard _nightmare?_ Nah. Just knocked into some cabinets last night. You know, nothing big…”

_“Stiles, I wouldn’t even have to listen to your heartbeat to know that’s a lie.”_

“You suck,” Stiles sighs.

“I wanna see when we get to school. Okay?”

He rubs hand over his face, mouth twisting as his joints throb. “I’m not _injured_ , Scott. But uh, see, the thing is… I’m not gonna be at school today, buddy. M’kinda sick.”

_“Sick?”_

“Yeah. Being trapped in cold water for two hours will do that. Not all of us have supernatural immune systems, you know."

_“I’m sorry.”_

“Uh. What? Sorry for what?”

 _“For not getting there sooner.”_ And oh no. No, no, no. That is definitely guilt Stiles is hearing. And that, that can’t be a thing. Even if Stiles remembers - vividly - the betrayal, desperation, and fear of Scott hanging up on him. Remembers the dread that he - and Derek, both - were going to drown.

“I’m still _here_ ,” he insists. “I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t showed up. Derek, neither.” He wants to complain, to joke, and tease, about maybe next time Scott should get there a little quicker. But that’s real regret and Stiles _does not_ want Scott to regret saving his life. In any form.

_“But you’re sick.”_

“Better sick than dead.” This isn’t a conversation that’s going to go anywhere but in circles. And Stiles is far too exhausted to attempt it. “So what about this magical painkiller touch thing? You guys can do that?”

_“I… yeah. Deaton showed me at the clinic. We can uh… take someone’s pain, I guess?”_

Stiles hums. “Well that’s… morbid. So you feel their pain instead? That sucks.”

_“It’s not really like that. It’s kind of… dulled, actually? I don’t know why. I think if someone were in a lot of pain, then it would really hurt. Or maybe it’s because dogs feel pain differently? I’ve only tried it on dogs so far.”_

“Gains werewolf powers, uses them to make puppies feel better. You’re such a Disney Princess, Scotty,” he teases.

_“Ugh. I am not-- look, I’ll see you later, okay? Go back to sleep.”_

Mission: Distract Scott from baseless guilt - accomplished. He does a little victory fist pump, hits his hand on the shelves behind his bed, and whines. Yeah. He’s way too sick and exhausted to be sentient at the moment. “Alright. Bye, Scott.” After hanging up, he tosses the phone onto a higher shelf, where it won’t deafen him again.

And then he twists over onto his side, curls around his pillow, and passes out.

\-----------------------------------------

The next time he wakes up, it’s because _really has to pee_ and because he’s been in the same position for so long that it’s starting to hurt. Which is why, after he’s emptied his bladder and brushed the taste of _death_ out of his mouth, he traverses the stairs with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. It’s more carefully sliding down them than it is walking, but he manages to get to the couch all the same, so Stiles counts it as a victory. He collapses down onto it, clicking on the TV because while he’s utterly exhausted from just the trip down, he doesn’t want to sleep anymore. The cable guide reads 6:42 a.m.

He stays there until his dad wanders down, peering at him from the staircase with bleary eyes. Stiles waves weakly at him. “‘Mornin’.”

“Morning, son,” John  replies gruffly. He runs a hand over his face as he comes into the living room. “How’d you sleep?”

Stiles doesn’t catch the look on his father’s face until he’s shrugged. “Good, I--” He freezes. John is staring at him with The Sheriff expression. “Uh, yeah, you know, when I finally did get to sleep. Kinda hard with all of…” He gestures to his general _self_ , hoping it’ll sum up everything Stiles can’t actually say.

Except it just makes his dad glare at him. Damnit. “...Hmm. Right.” He turns away from Stiles, heading towards the phone instead. Giving Stiles plenty of time to sink lower into the couch and let his insides _wither_ in dread. He’s hyperaware of the tension in the room as the Sheriff calls the school to mark his absence. And even more aware that the tension might be a product of his paranoia. Which could give him away.

It’s that circular kind of thinking that’s going to get him in trouble.

He’s saved from an awkward confrontation when the doorbell goes off. At seven in the morning. And Stiles really wants to get up and greet this angel that’s apparently watching over him, saving him from awful conversations that will lead to even worse fight. But his legs aren’t cooperating, and so he pushes himself up onto his elbow to watch John answer the door. It’s not a great vantage point.

Mostly what he sees is his father’s shoulders go still after opening the door. “...Scott. Good morning.”

“Morning, Sheriff!”

_Scott._

“How are you, son? Have a good night?”

Stiles’ heart, which had been transcending into another realm from elation, feels like it’s fallen straight out of the sky and into his feet. Oh no.

“Um,” he hears Scott mumble, and prays for his best friend to come up with something good. “I guess, yeah.”

“Your mother gave me a call last night. Next time you have any guests over, Scott, you should probably tell them to use the door.”

“O-Oh. Ah, I’ll… do that. Sorry.” And Stiles wants to _scream_ because that is not convincing in the slightest. They’re going to get caught. And it’s going to be _awful_ \-- “Can I bring this in? Stiles said he was sick, so…”

“Oh. That was nice of you, Scott. Thank you.”

His ears perk up. “Scotty?” he calls, though it comes out as a croak. “I thought you were gonna come over after school?”

The Sheriff moves out of the way, allowing Scott into the room. Who peers at Stiles from the foyer in all his angelic glory, which may or may not be influenced by the large tupperware in his hands. “I said I’d see you later, dude. Not when,” he chirps.

“Did… Did you bring me food?”

Scott shakes the container gently. “Albondigas~” he all but sing-songs.

It might be the illness that has his heart all aflutter, or it might be the sudden, _overwhelming_ burst of love for his best friend. “You made me your Mom’s meatball soup?” His voice comes out wavering. Emotional. But his best friend has spent what has to be hours making him his mother’s _family recipe_ because he’s sick. Stiles is allowed to get a little choked up.

“Thought you might like some,” Scott tells him, as if that explains everything. “I’m gonna go warm this up. You want some, Sheriff?”

“Sure. Thank you for doing this, Scott.” Even his father seems a little mystified. Which, hey, if that keeps him from _asking questions_ \- bless Scotty.

His best friend beams. “It was no trouble.” They both watch him shuffle into the kitchen, helping himself to their bowls and ladle. His dad follows him to grab them something to drink, and returns to Stiles with a glass of orange juice and more ibuprofen.

“Stay by the phone today,” he reminds Stiles. “Your babcia’s going to give you a call today.”

Stiles grimaces around the mouth of the glass. “Which one - Stilinski or Wawrzaszek?”

“Is there ever one without the other?”

“Great,” he groans. “Can you at least keep them from bringing any of their ‘old country remedies’ over?”

“I can’t promise you anything.” And he looks _delighted_ to say it too. His dad is a jerk.

His whine of despair has Scott popping his head in from the kitchen. “Are your grandmas coming over while you’re home sick?” There’s two steaming bowls in his hands when he reenters the living room. One goes to the Sheriff as he passes.

“I hope not,” Stiles answers, eyeing the remaining bowl hungrily. Nothing beats Melissa McCall’s meatball soup. “I love them, man, but… all the doting and the cooing and the weird home medicines…” He reaches out to take the offered soup. The moment his fingers brush Scott’s, his stomach dips, followed by a rush of warmth and a _pull_ as all of his aches dim by several measures. The veins in Scott’s hands flow black for a brief instant. His eyes dart up to meet Scott’s. Scott only smiles at him, gentle. Secretive.

“Aw,” Scott says, as if nothing has just happened. “But I love your grandmas.”

“That’s because they adore you.”

“No…”

“Of course they do!” Stiles insists. “What’s not to love?”

Scott’s cheeks go a faint pink, and he ducks his head. “You’re just saying that because I brought you soup,” he teases.

Yeah. Right.

Of course he is.

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

_Next:  
_ _Side A, Ch3_

_Over the course of the next week, John is approached not by one, but three sets of adults worried about the sudden and potentially dangerous behavioral changes in their respective teenagers._

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

**END CHAPTER 1.**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something’s wrong with Scott. There are hunters running around shooting up the alleys at everything that moves and lizardy revenge monsters chasing them down and ripping through walls and _people_ and Stiles has done some freaky magic shit and his dad has showed up with that disappointed look on his face and _something is wrong with Scott._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some new material! This one picks up right after the last chapter of Side A, following Derek, Scott, and Stiles through the end of s02e08 ("Raving"). Time for some H/C yessss.
> 
> I'd also like to thank everyone for the feedback I've gotten back on this series, and for patience while I tinkered and restructured some of the earlier chapters! Thank you all so much!
> 
> As a final note, I've left anon comments on, but they will be heavily moderated.

\------------------------------------------------------------

 _Before:  
_ _Side A, Ch4_

_John doesn’t see Derek in the weeks following, and he no longer gets approached by concerned parents. But Beacon Hills is anything but quiet._

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

Something’s wrong with Scott. There are hunters running around shooting up the alleys at everything that moves and lizardy revenge monsters chasing them down and ripping through walls and _people_ and Stiles has done some freaky magic shit and his dad has showed up with that disappointed look on his face and _something is wrong with Scott._

Stiles is going to have an anxiety attack about this tonight, once he’s hidden away in the safety of his bedroom and no one will hear him having a mild breakdown. The adrenaline is the only thing staving off a breakdown now, the hysterical whirlwind of his thoughts narrowing down to a single point:

_Something is very wrong with Scott._

Stiles doesn’t care that he’s gripping Derek’s arm too hard as he drags the man away from the crime scene and his dad’s judging eyes, that his nails are biting into flesh. He’s a werewolf, the _Alpha_ as he so likes to remind them. He can take it. He’s going to have to because Stiles is _freaking out_ just looking at Scott. He looks small in Derek’s arms, his face sickly and pallid, almost bloodless, and his breath is rattling in his chest without seeming to go anywhere. His chest doesn’t even expand all the way before it’s trying to draw in the next stilted breath and--

It’s an asthma attack. Stiles has seen enough of Scott suffering through them to know what it looks like. But how - _how?_

“Stiles. _Breathe._ ” Derek’s sharp reprimand jolts him back to reality. He realizes he’s feeling short-of-breath himself, and quickly reins his breathing back in before he actually manages to trigger his own anxiety attack.

 _‘Four seconds in, hold for seven, eight out.’_ He repeats, forcing himself to breathe. _‘Don’t do this. Not here.’_

“ _What happened?_ ” he snaps once he feels like he can breathe without counting.

“Victoria Argent.” Derek says with a breathless snarl. Or it could be a wheeze. Come to think of it, Derek isn’t looking too great either. (Objectively speaking. Because Derek Hale is the kind of disgustingly beautiful person that can be thrown in raw sewage and come out still looking like a GQ model. Albeit GQ model covered in raw sewage. _‘Focus, Stiles.’_ ) His skin is glittering with a thin sheen of sweat, his breathing coming in shuddering gasps that make his expression twist in obvious pain. “She had… she was filling the room with smoke, but it was wolfsbane. She was making him breathe it in. I don’t know for how long.”

Stiles’ heart rate ramps up another few dizzying notches. His brain isn’t helping, feverishly recalling every online article of just how horrifying death due to poison gas is. “Is that-- how long do we…”

“I don’t know,” Derek admits. “I’ve never… It’s not like getting shot. It’s hard to breathe already. I only inhaled a little. Scott…”

They need to get him to Deaton immediately, is the silent agreement between them. “Come on,” Stiles urges. He all but drags Derek back down the alley towards the Jeep, which shows exactly how bad everything. Derek is actually letting Stiles _touch him_ . _Lead him._

If he wasn’t so scared, Stiles might have laughed at that.

Derek doesn’t even let go of Scott to get into the Jeep, just shifting his limp form into one arm as he pulls himself in. Stiles rushes around to the driver side, arms outstretched in preparation to move Scott into the center of the bench. What he gets is a sharp, almost feral glare and the werewolf all but gathering Scott into his lap. Which, okay… if Derek wants to play that way, they can. Especially when, for an instant, he looks ready to eat anything and anyone that comes near him. Or Scott.

“Alright, alright. Right,” Stiles babbles. “You keep him. Sure.” He starts the engine and throws the Jeep into gear so quickly that something grinds in the gearshift, and guns it out of the alley.

For several minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of the engine and Scott’s labored breathing. Stiles feels sick just listening to it, and his hands ache from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. This can’t happen. Scott can’t die like this. Scott can’t die _ever -_ or at least not until he’s wrinkled and gray and… surrounded by a small army of grandchildren, or something. “He’s gonna be okay,” Stiles mutters, mostly to himself. He doesn’t have Scott here to be his optimism, so he’ll have to settle for lying to himself.

“What happened to Isaac and Erica?” Derek asks gruffly. Stiles flinches without meaning to. Stupid. _Stupid_. It’s just Derek.

“I saw them getting into your flashy Camaro.”

“Boyd got them, then. Good.”

Stiles bobs his head without really listening, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. All of his Dad’s deputies - ex-deputies - will be at the crime scene and the chances are pretty low. Which is good, considering Stiles isn’t going to stop for anything. The Jeep’s engine roars, lurching forward as Stiles hits deserted roads.

“-- _Stiles._ ” He hasn’t even heard Derek talking.

“ _What?_ ” he snaps.

“I _said_ : what happened with Jackson?”

“He got out,” Stiles growls right back, even though his is kind of pathetic in comparison. “The tranquilizer Deaton gave us didn’t keep him down for more than fifteen minutes. And he started… it started-- fuck, I don’t know. The kanima’s _master_ started talking through him? It said some weird Exorcist bullshit and then tore it’s way through a steel wall on it’s way out. We lost him.”

The hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck prickle when Derek doesn’t answer him. It feels like the air inside the Jeep has gone colder by several degrees. When he dares to glance over, he finds Derek gazing into the distance with the most _murderous_ expression he’s ever seen. And the man has threatened - at varying levels of seriousness - to kill him before. His eyes are burning red, which isn’t helping anything.

“Uh… dude?”

“We should’ve had him.” Derek grinds the words out through clenched teeth. There’s actually a twitch in his jaw from frustration. His knuckles have gone white around Scott’s arm. His sprouted claws - _great_ \- and with how hard he’s gripping Scott it’s only going to be a few more seconds before blood is drawn. “I should’ve taken him out when I had the chance.”

“Dude--” He’s caught between reminding Derek that Scott is 100% against Jackson’s death - never mind that Stiles isn’t even sure that Jackson can be saved at this point - and telling him off for being rough with Scotty’s unconscious form. Luckily, he doesn’t have to decide which he wants to shout at the werewolf for first, because Scott flinches in Derek’s arms, letting out a pained whimper.

Derek lets go as if he’s been burned. The frustration melts from his expression, replaced by something distressingly vulnerable - like guilt. Like _fear_. Stiles has to look away from it, telling himself it’s because he has to pay attention to the road.

But he doesn’t miss the way the other man gathers Scott close, even tucks Scott under his chin, and no, that’s not a threatening growl that Stiles hears, that’s a soothing rumble, and that’s…

This isn’t Derek. Derek Hale, newly minted Alpha werewolf, is jagged glass, is hot steel; is all rough edges and fury. He’s Mister “Anger Is My Anchor” and Mister “I’m the Alpha” and Mister “It’s Easier to Kill it First.” Stiles mentally equates him with being manhandled and threatened. And while Stiles has long since figured out that those things are more an act than an intent, a way to use his own intimidating appearance to protect himself, to shove others away - all Alpha posturing even when he wasn’t one - _this_ isn’t what Stiles ever imagined would be underneath.

This is fragile. This is pain and uncertainty. This is Derek’s veins turning black, until Scott goes quiet and Derek is shuddering in the passenger seat. This is something _Stiles isn’t equipped to deal with._

“H-Hey,” he tries, “hey, you’re already hurt so don’t…” Stiles reaches out, hand fluttering, and remembers a second too late how much the man hates to be touched. But his fingers are already brushing against his sleeve, an awkward near caress as he hesitates. He can’t help but hold his breath, waiting for Derek to whip around with the same steely glare as before.

The werewolf flinches, and Stiles mirrors it. But Derek doesn’t snap at him. He doesn’t even look at him. Stiles swallows hard, feining casual as he completes the touch and squeezes Derek’s arm in what is perhaps the most painfully awkward reassurance in his life.

Stiles shifts in his seat, having absolutely zero idea when the touch is going to become unwelcome. But as long as Derek is letting him… well, it kind of feels nice to have someone to hold onto right now.

\-----------------------------------------

They don’t speak until after Deaton has given both of them the antidote. Actually, they speak to _Deaton_ more than they’ve spoken to each other since leaving the warehouse - enough to tell the vet what happened so he could work his magic on Scott.

Stiles… Stiles doesn’t do much of the talking, in reality. It feels like his lungs have closed up just watching Scott struggle to drag in each breath. Like a sympathetic reaction. He ends up pacing the length of the room while Deaton works, gnawing at his lips and his nails, his head too full of words for his lips to speak. And the second Deaton moves away, and declares Scott safe - a close call, but _safe_ \- he does what is _his job_ and plants his feet beside the exam table and refuses to move.

Scott’s still unresponsive. His eyelids flutter every so often and his expression pinches when he takes deeper breaths. But he _can_ take those deep breaths - clear, if shuddering, intakes of air that are currently the most beautiful sounds Stiles has ever heard. The impulse to press his hands to Scott’s chest and feel each breath is so strong that his hands clench around the edge of the metal table.

This was too close. They’d had close calls before. But this? This was too close to losing Scott. His best friend, his… well, _his Scott._

“It helps, sometimes.”

Stiles jolts, nearly falling into the table when Derek speaks up. He’s sitting in a chair against the wall, eyes drooping from fatigue. He looks ready to pass out for a week. Which, Stiles can’t exactly blame him for that. _Stiles_ wants to pass out for a week, and he hadn’t even done any fighting.

“Uh. What?”

Derek nods towards Scott, towards where Stiles’ hands keep inching closer to his best friend. “Physical contact. It helps. A ‘wolf will seek comfort from their Pack.”

_Werewolves._

“That’s nice and all. Very happy family together time, but I’m not Pack. I can’t do the freaky black vein, pain stealing thing. I’m human, remember? One hundred and forty-seven pounds of sarcasm and fragile bone, here.”

The sassy bastard actually rolls his eyes at him. “You don’t need to be a werewolf to be Pack, idiot.”

There were humans killed in the Hale fire too, his brain supplies. So, yes, that’s fair. “But I’m not--”

Derek’s expression turns fierce. “If you’re about to say that you’re somehow _not Scott’s Pack_ , I swear to god I’m going to throw something at you, Stiles.”

His face burns. “I wasn’t going to say that,” he gripes.

He was. He absolutely was.

Stiles doesn’t give him the satisfaction of obeying right away. He counts the seconds, counts Scott’s breaths, until it feels like he’s waited long enough to make it look casual as he reaches out and takes Scott’s hand in his. It’s warm; such a simple fact that has relief choking him. Scotty’s gonna make it.

He laces their fingers together. And if it looks like Scott relaxes, if his breathing gets stronger? It’s his imagination, surely.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 _Next:  
_ _Side A, Ch5_

 _He lets the rage brew into the next day, fueled by his son’s guilty avoidance and the silent remorse -_ **_pity_ ** _\- of his deputies._

\------------------------------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 2.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having a roof over his head after over a month is… _odd_ , for Derek. Having a warm place to sleep is odd. _Celina and Eliza_ (as they insist he call them) are odd. They… _dote._
> 
>  _They mother him._ They steadfastly refuse his offer to pay for _anything_. They make sure he _eats_ and ask if he’s _comfortable_ and they’re… they’re just _odd._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping back into this fic again (finally). Not much going on in this chapter besides Derek settling in at the B&B, but of course, he feels that having a regular meal and a roof over his head as the strangest thing that's happened to him in months. There's not too many translations in this chapter either. The only major one being Stiles' cutesy pet name _Myszko_. It translates to "little mouse" and sounds similar to his diminutive name _Mieszko_ , so it's the perfect embarrassing grandma nickname.

\------------------------------------------------------------

_ Before:  
_ _ Side A, Ch5 _

_ He lets the rage brew into the next day, fueled by his son’s guilty avoidance and the silent remorse -  _ **_pity_ ** _ \- of his deputies. _

\------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


Having a roof over his head after over a month is… odd, for Derek. Having a warm place to sleep is  _ odd _ .  _ Celina and Eliza  _ (as they insist he call them)  _ are odd.  _ They…  _ dote _ .

_ They mother him.  _ They steadfastly refuse his offer to pay for  _ anything.  _ They make sure he  _ eats _ and ask if he’s  _ comfortable _ and they’re… they’re just  _ odd _ . 

Derek finds himself settling into a routine quickly - something that completely _ baffles _ him after spending the last two months leaping from one life threatening situation to another. He jolts awake sometime between seven and nine after only a few hours of restless sleep. Unable to remain in bed, Derek gets up, goes for a run, and then showers. At exactly ten in the morning, there’s a single knock on his door. He’s treated to breakfast, and tries not to eat his weight in pancakes while the older women fuss over how obviously hungry he is. Since becoming an Alpha, his appetite has only grown to match his growing strength. He fears eating them out of house and home, but they only seem delighted at the idea of feeding him.

That first morning, Derek is practically terrified of sharing a meal, of having to  _ answer questions _ . Of having to be social. But neither of them push, even if their eyes are a little too knowing. Instead, after breakfast the three of them go over the (long) list of repairs the house will need, and everything that Derek will need to fix things. 

In the week that follows, Derek begins work immediately after breakfast, starting with the roof and the gutters. It’s hard, rewarding work, and has the bonus of pushing the fear and the exhaustion and  _ everything else _ from his mind for a while. Derek throws himself into it wholeheartedly. He quietly pays for his own supplies, and places the cash Celina gives him into an envelope to return later - once they’ll hopefully accept it.

At three, Derek picks his Betas up from the high school, and together they return to the rail depot for training. These sessions always end in frustration for all of them, it seems. Their first full moon is fast approaching, but Derek also has to teach them how to  _ not die  _ with the kanima and the army of hunters bearing down on all of them, and trying to teach both that and control only leads to pain and sullen glares from his Betas, and only compounds his fears of losing his Pack before he’s really had a chance to  _ have them _ yet. 

He has half a mind to ask Scott for help on the full moon. Both to include the boy in what  _ should be  _ his Pack and to make sure that they all make it out alive.

Between that and dodging hunters every night, it’s no wonder that Derek can’t seem to sleep. Even with a roof over his head and a warm place to sleep. But that’s his life now. That’s been his life for the last six years. Like a pendulum swinging between chaos and peace, and Derek’s never sure exactly when it’s going to swing the other way.

No, what’s  _ odd _ is living with Marcelina Stilinski and Elżbieta Wawrzaszek.

Marcella, the strangely endearing portmanteau that they’ve deemed themselves, have strange rules. The first rules they explain to him seem normal enough - meals are at 10 AM, 2 PM, and 7 PM; don’t go into the greenhouse at the back of the property; please only go into the basement for laundry unless asked otherwise. But then there are… others.

Derek must always announce his leaving, even if Celina and Eliza are not present, and must always “greet the house” upon his return. And should he ever be caught outside after the women retire for the evening, he’s always to come in the front garden gate, and no other door. Not even if he pulls his car into the driveway.

They claim it’s “tradition,” but it’s not one Derek has ever heard of. The first time he forgets to say goodbye, though, Derek returns only to find that the door has stuck. And no matter how hard he pushes, even with what  _ should be  _ enough strength to snap the lock, it refuses to budge. He’s left standing on the veranda at a complete loss until Celina opens the door for him.

“This is what happens when you don’t follow the rules, Mister Hale.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously as she says it. And Derek wouldn’t think anymore of it... 

Except the next day as he’s carrying the ladder around back, he almost trips directly over a wolfsbane bloom. The ladder thunks against the side of the house as he backpedals away from it, the smell coming off the flower alone enough to make his flesh crawl. And he’s sure, he’s  _ sure  _ that the plant hadn’t been there yesterday.

He gives the flower a wide berth, unwilling to take any chances. He sets the ladder around back where he’ll need it, and goes inside to inform Eliza, as casually as he can, that there appears to be some aconite growing by the house.

“Oh.  _ Oh _ .” A deep frown flits across her face, almost horrified before smoothing out in the next instant. “Thank you for telling me, dear. I’ll take care of it immediately. We can’t have that growing here. There’s no telling who could get sick if they touched it. Just let me go get my gloves…” Eliza pats his arm gently as she wanders from the kitchen.

Derek watches her go, uncertain. There’s no lie in her heartbeat, but there’s something  _ off  _ in her tone. He almost leaves, convinced of his own paranoia, but stops when he hears her voice muttering from the hallway. “Really? This is what you’re doing? I know you’re upset with him, but there are better ways to show him that than trying to poison him.  _ Honestly _ , we’ve talked about this. No putting the guests in danger. ...Good. You’d better get your act together. He’s doing us a big favor.”

Only silence answers her.

Derek… Derek takes greater care to follow the rules after that.

In the days that follow, he’s a bit more vigilant during his hours at the B&B. He’s more suspicious of his things going missing, and of things seeming to move after he puts them down. Or his favorite henley disappearing from the laundry. Or coming back to his room to find all the furniture has been moved inches to the left.

Someone is playing tricks on him. Celina is the most likely choice, as she only seems amused by his suspicion. But Derek isn’t. Quite. Certain.

Living with paranoia is something Derek is used to, and so he learns to live with this as well. These little pranks are annoyances at worst. And as long as the wolfsbane has stopped appearing in the yard, Derek can’t find the strength to complain. Especially not when everything outside of the B&B is  _ actually  _ seeking to kill him.

He makes it to the end of the week, alive and whole and surprisingly… settled. 

And then Scott and Stiles show up at the bed and breakfast.

Derek is working on sanding the veranda railings that afternoon, and hears the familiar (grating) rumble of the Jeep’s engine from a block away. There’s a moment where he legitimately debates ducking back into the house and hiding. He hasn’t seen either of the boys since their attempt to capture the kanima a week ago, and he…

He can’t stop seeing Scott, limp and so small, struggling to breathe in his arms - or Stiles, pale and desperate beside him. The images have joined the countless others in Derek’s nightmares, right alongside his family and his Betas. 

His reflexes don’t help him. The Jeep screeches to a stop in front of the house before he can decide. Stiles is leaping out of it almost before the roaring engine cuts out, and Derek  _ knows  _ this is going test his control, because Stiles has got  _ that look _ . That  _ look _ with his jaw squared and his body a line of barely contained aggression just waiting to snap. He’s looking for a fight, and his eyes have zeroed in on Derek.

“Shit,” Derek hisses under his breath, and glares at Scott when his eyes crinkle in amusement at the curse. But it’s hard to stay annoyed at the boy when Derek is so overwhelmingly  _ relieved _ to see him on his feet again. 

Stiles hops up the stairs onto the veranda with uncharacteristic grace. No flailing limbs or stammering words here, just a frightening intensity in his eyes that actually has Derek  _ nervous _ . He’s used to fighting with Stiles, and with Scott. But this is different. This isn’t Stiles being an indignant brat and mocking him at every turn, being argumentative just for the sake of it. Stiles looks out for  _ blood _ and Scott is right behind him.

“ _ Mieszko! _ ” 

As if summoned, Eliza emerges from the house. Stiles flinches, his icy glare flickering under the weight of her beaming smile. She goes to him, completely unaware of what she’s just saved Derek from dealing with, and embraces him. “You didn’t tell us you were coming to visit! How are you, darling?”

Stiles ducks into her arms, the aggression in his face dissipating entirely. “Hey, babcia,” he mumbles. There’s a pink flush blooming on his cheeks when Eliza cups his face, cooing sweetly at him.

“And you brought Scott! Hello, dear. Goodness, look at how much you’ve grown. I hardly recognize you.” Her doting shifts from her grandson to Scott, who grins with the full force of the sun behind it. It’s a smile that will never be directed at  _ Derek _ of all people, only reserved for the likes of his mother, Stiles, Allison, and (apparently) Eliza. But Derek doesn’t let himself dwell on that. That way lies a jealous misery that Derek can’t even begin to fathom.

A sharp hum at his side makes Derek jump. Celina has appeared beside him, seemingly without sound. He must be more exhausted than he thought. Even his senses are failing him. “ _ Myszko _ ,” she coos, and Stiles turns an even darker shade of pink. 

“Aw, babcia,” he whines, casting a mortified glance at Derek.

Derek has the grace not to smirk at him, but his brows do tick upward at the pet name. The tension from moments before has fizzled out, now that Celina and Eliza are in full-swing doting. The boys are preened over, complete with sweet (embarrassing) cheek kisses and promises for snacks.

“If you had told us you’d be coming, we could have made something for you,” Eliza tuts at them. “What’s the use of that cell phone you love so much if you don’t use it?”

“We heard you took Derek in and had to come see,” Stiles says defensively. 

This earns him an affronted grunt from Celina and swift flick to his forehead. “The  _ correct answer  _ was that you were excited to see your babcie, young man.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Eliza bats the other woman away, her smile one of patient indulgence. “We’ll let you say hello, then,” she tells the boys, and hip checks Celina in the direction of the door. “Just come inside when you’re ready for snacks, boys.”

Stiles keeps his smile until his grandmothers disappear back into the house. The instant they’re gone from view, the amused expression drops off his face. If this had been Derek’s first, or even his third time seeing it, he’d be amazed at how quickly Stiles can swing from one extreme to the next. As it is, Stiles rounds on him with a quick glower, lip curling.  “What the hell are you doing?” he hisses in hushed tones, as if one of his grandmothers is going to suddenly reappear at the first sign of trouble.

Derek does a mental countdown from five, and steels himself against the urge to strangle the boy. “I’m fixing your grandmothers’ porch,” he deadpans.

Stiles not only rolls his eyes, he does it with his whole body in that absurdly expressive way that he does. “ _ I mean _ , what the hell are you doing  _ living here _ ?” he spits. “What are you planning?”

“ _ Planning? _ ”

“Yes,  _ Derek _ , planning. Just like you’ve been manipulating and planning your way into Scott’s life and your Betas’ lives! What, did you decide dragging my dad and my grandmothers into this fucked up life -  _ your fucked up life! -  _ is the quickest way to get Scott or me into your little Pack?” Stiles gestures wildly. “Because it’s not gonna work! So pack up your shit and leave my family out of it before they get hurt--”

“They asked  _ me  _ to stay.” His voice is a growl, but the rage sits like ice in his stomach. He’d much rather focus on that. He hates that it hurts; that he’s let them affect him this much. He hates that he actually started to think they might see eye to eye on anything.

Stiles falters to a stop, his mouth clicking shut. It’s so cruelly  _ satisfying  _ to shut the idiot up. “What?”

“I didn’t come looking for this place.” Derek grinds the words out, barely keeping himself in check. “Your father brought me here after finding me at the trainyard.” 

“He… he what? Why would he do  _ that? _ ”

“Apparently he thinks I’m  _ homeless, Stiles. _ ”

_ Both  _ boys look like they’ve swallowed something unpleasant. Scott’s brows draw together, and Stiles opens and closes his mouth as he struggles to form an response.

“...A-Are you?” Stiles eventually asks.

Derek closes his eyes, praying for strength, but doesn’t answer. Because the  _ truest  _ answer is that he hasn’t had a home since his  _ burned down  _ with nearly everyone he loved inside it. The less tragic answer is technically  _ yes _ , he’s chosen to hide out instead of rent a room where the hunters were more likely to find him. But he’s not about to tell them that. “I didn’t  _ manipulate  _ my Betas into getting the Bite. I offered, and they  _ chose _ it,” he says evenly. “Just like Celina and Eliza offered to let me stay and I  _ chose _ to help them with repairs. To thank them.” He sets the sanding block down, refusing to look at either of them as he wipes his hands on his jeans. “Tell Celina I’m going to pick up something from the hardware store.” He  _ might _ give them the slightest vindictive shove as he brushes past. 

“Derek…” Scott calls after him.

“Have fun, Scott.”

Derek keeps his gaze focused ahead of him the entire way to his car. Scott (or Stiles) doesn’t attempt to call out to him again. They’re silent all the way up until he revs the engine. And then Scott’s hesitant voice reaches his ears.

“Maybe we should apologize.”

“What? No. Why? We were totally right to question why the fuck he showed up here. He’s been nothing but shady since he started being all ‘ _ I’m the Alpha’...  _ even shadier than he was  _ before _ . ”

“He wants to stop the kanima and get out of this alive just as much as we do,” Scott argues. 

“ _ You’re  _ the one who’s all up in arms about him wanting to  _ kill Jackson, _ Scott!”

“I know but…” Scott’s voice is softer this time, less confident. “He seemed really hurt this time.”

Derek doesn’t wait to hear Stiles’ answer, and guns the engine in reverse. The self-loathing, his old, old friend, is rising like bile in his throat. He’s been fighting to survive, just doing what he can to make it to another day without everything going to shit. But more and more it’s been like trying to hold a fistful of sand. It just keeps slipping through his fingers. A little more, and a little more. First his sister, then Scott, then  _ Kate  _ and  _ Peter _ and then Jackson and the Argents and…

Something is going to break, sooner or later. Derek can feel it coming. But he doesn’t want Scott and Stiles to be what breaks. He doesn’t want to be their enemy. 

Like an idiot, he’s actually come to  _ care  _ about what they think of him.

\------------------------------------------------------------

_ Next:  
_ _ Side B, Ch4 _

_ He knew it.  _ **_He knew it_ ** _. He should have known. Derek should have… _

_ “I’ve done everything you asked of me!” Scott hisses to Gerard. _ **_Gerard._ **

\------------------------------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 3.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew it. _He knew it._ He should have known. Derek should have…
> 
> “I’ve done everything you asked of me!” Scott hisses to Gerard. _Gerard._ “I'm part of Derek's pack, I've given you all the information that you wanted, I told you Matt was controlling Jackson--” Derek closes his eyes, holding his breath past the urge to shift. Claws sting against his palms. 
> 
> “Then leave him to us. Help your friends. Leave Matt and Jackson to me. Deal with your mother. Go!”
> 
> This can’t be happening - not again. This night was already shit enough with the full moon and _Peter - fucking _Peter, again_ \- and now this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY ALMOST NEW YEAR EVERYONE! Please accept this too long awaited chapter as a gift! :D

\------------------------------------------------------------ 

_Before:_

_Side B, Ch3_

_Having a roof over his head after over a month is… odd, for Derek. Having a warm place to sleep is_ **_odd. Celina and Eliza are odd._ **

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

He knew it. _He knew it_. He should have known. Derek should have…

“I’ve done everything you asked of me!” Scott hisses to Gerard. _Gerard._ “I'm part of Derek's pack, I've given you all the information that you wanted, I told you Matt was controlling Jackson--” Derek closes his eyes, holding his breath past the urge to shift. Claws sting against his palms.

“Then leave him to us. Help your friends. Leave Matt and Jackson to me. Deal with your mother. Go!”

This can’t be happening - not _again_. This night was already shit enough with the full moon and Peter - fucking _Peter, again_ \- and now this.

Derek shrinks farther back into the shadows as Scott darts past him. The boy doesn’t notice him, seemingly too worried about the hunters overrunning the Sheriff’s station - or getting _caught_ _in the act_ \- to glance his way. Derek watches him, eyes tracing the lines of his form, trying so hard to find the mark of _betrayal_ in the way he moves. But he can’t find anything. Did Scott really hate him that much? Or… no, of course.

 _Allison_.

 _“Or maybe it’s just a little bit of history repeating.”_ Kate’s words are like a gentle poison in his memories. He feels sick all at once.

But no, it’s even worse than history repeating. Because Scott is so naive that he actually sees the Argents for what they are and still believes that any of them won’t turn on him the second he isn’t useful.

Scott isn’t heading for the holding cells, Derek realizes after a moment. He’s doubling back towards the front of the building, to wherever he’d left Stiles. He doesn’t know that his friend had followed him, dragging himself along the floor. _Both_ of them had left Stiles there, prone and vulnerable, in their haste to chase down the kanima.

Derek returns the way he came. The hallways are quiet now that the hunters have moved on, presumably after Matt and his pet lizard of vengeance. He picks his way over the bodies of deputies and hunters alike, pushing his senses past the scent of blood and death.

Stiles, when Derek reaches him, is attempting to pull himself up the wall on unsteady legs. He’s not managing it very well. His face is red from exertion as he tries to push himself higher than a kneeling position, only to unbalance and collapse against the wall. Derek grabs his arm to stop him from crashing all the way to the floor, and flinches at the breathless shriek the boy lets loose.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” he calls, giving Stiles the slightest shake. “It’s me.”

The screaming and the ineffectual - _weak_ \- flailing stops. “Derek?” Stiles’ eyes are wide and glassy, not completely focused on him. He reeks of fear, and when he speaks it sounds like he’s fighting to draw breath. “Get… get them. Derek, help-- _help my dad._ ” It’s the closest to begging Derek has ever heard from him, as if Derek might _actually_ tell him to fuck off and leave.

( _He should,_ a tiny, treacherous thought whispers. He should leave them all behind. Say _fuck Beacon Hills_ , gather his Betas and leave this death knell of a town for someplace where people he cares about won’t stab him in the back. Because Stiles may not be as naive as Scott is but he’s at least three times as calculating, and he might be right with Scott in _this_ too--)

“Shut up,” he mutters. He isn’t sure who he’s saying it to. Instead he drags Stiles to his (useless) feet and props him up against the length of his body. Derek settles a hand on Stiles’ hip, ignoring his spluttering, and hauls him the rest of the way into the room.

The Sheriff still lays crumpled on the floor where Matt had left him. The side of his face is turning a nasty shade of purple, the skin scraped and bleeding from the force of the gun. Stiles nearly pitches forward in his haste to get to the man. “Dad,” he pleads, his voice tight. Derek saves them all the trouble, and eases Stiles down so he’s propped against the wall. He strips off his jacket next, and quickly and carefully shifts Sheriff Stilinski into a safe position on the floor with his head pillowed on the jacket - and, more importantly, where Stiles can see his father without dying of fright. The boy has gone completely silent, watching his father with dark, haunted eyes.

Unsure if he should even try to comfort Stiles, or what the hell he could even _say_ , Derek instead addresses the final racing heartbeat in the room.

 

Melissa McCall is pressed at the back of the holding cell. Her heartbeat is a terrified thudding in Derek’s ears, but her expression is set in a measured glare. She looks defiant - steely - for all the fear pouring off her. It doesn’t stop her from flinching when Derek approaches the door. She breaks eye contact as he grabs the bars, gazing at his hands instead as he merely pulls until the lock snaps. There’s no point in hiding just how easy the task is for him, not anymore. Not when she’s been face-to-face with two shifted werewolves and a kanima.

The door screeches in protest as Derek forces it open, but Melissa doesn’t move from her spot at the back of the cell.

It’s not until Derek kneels next to Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski that she even twitches. “W-What are you doing?” she demands with a slight waver in her voice.

“Helping,” Derek tells her. He grasps Stilinski’s arm firmly and lets the pain come to him. He isn’t prepared for it to _hurt_ quite as much as it does. Normally, all but the worst pains are a twinge at the very edges of his perception. But now it feels like Peter’s claws are still lodged in his arm, ripping everything _out of him_ piece by piece.

“Hey, uh… you okay?” Stiles asks quietly. Derek’s suddenly aware that he’s gritting his teeth, drawing in shuddering gulps of air, and his face feels clammy in the still air of the room. He lets go of the Sheriff’s arm, and forces himself to breathe.

“I’m fine,” he lies. And, by the deadpan glare, Stiles doesn’t believes him this time.

“You are _so_ not fine, dude. You weren’t even fine _before_ the kanima got you. No way you would let that lizard freak sneak up on you like that if you weren’t--”

“I’m _fine_ , Stiles!” he snaps.

 _‘Peter’s back,’_ Derek so badly wants to tell him. _‘Peter’s back and my Betas aren’t adjusting and_ **_Scott_ ** _is working with the Argents and I don’t know what to do.’_

He can’t tell Stiles that, though. He can’t trust either of them right now.

Ms. McCall finally approaches, her movements deliberate. But it’s betrayed by the rapid flutter of her heart. “I didn’t think the boy hit him that hard,” she begins softly.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles sniffs, “Matt’s barely passing for human these days.” His entire body jumps when her gaze snaps up at his words. Melissa’s mouth does a curious twist, her jaw clenching. There’s an entire story in the look that’s shared between them. And not a happy one, at that. Derek watches it all in silence - the way Ms. McCall’s eyes narrow and the way Stiles starts to fidget.

“What happened to you?” she asks the boy at last.

“Uh. Well, the reject Ninja Turtle-- kanima. It’s called a kanima. Y’know, apparently a lizard revenge monster? Like, seriously, I couldn’t make this sh--crap up even at my best. It’s got this venom that paralyzes you temporarily? Presumably while it, like, eats your innards or-- I’ll stop now. It’s just uh, I can’t move much right now. It’s getting better though. I can, like, feel everything. Just can’t move too well yet.”

Melissa only waits out his rambling with more patience than Derek could ever muster. And when he finally falls into silence, she heaves an almost weary sigh. “Oh, Stiles…”

Something in her tone makes Stiles flinch. And Derek does his best not to notice. The tense silence is broken when Melissa kneels next to them, her focus on the Sheriff. “If he doesn’t wake up soon, he’ll need a hospital.” She gently takes the jacket from under Stilinski’s head, hands cupping his face to hold it steady. “Come on, John,” she whispers.

“There’s an ambulance on its way,” Derek says. He can hear multiple sirens blaring from miles off. “And backup’s with them.”

“How do you--” Melissa shakes her head, looking overwhelmed. “Nevermind. I don’t think I want to know.”

From the floor, the Sheriff sucks in a sharp breath that makes all of them jump. Stiles lurches from the wall. “Dad!” he calls. At the sound of his voice, Stilinski grimaces and lets out a pained moan.

“Not s’loud, son,” he slurs. And Derek may not be human, and may not have to deal with concussions, but he knows that doesn’t sound good. Ms. McCall is already leaning forward, the fear vanishing from her expression.

“John,” she speaks gently, “I need you to open your eyes for me. Can you tell me where you are?”

The man’s eyes open sluggishly, wincing all the while. “At the… At the station. We were… the boys--” And then his eyes go wide. “Stiles!” He jerks as if to sit up, but barely makes it an inch of the ground before all three of them are reaching out to stop him.

“I’m here, I’m okay!” Stiles says in a rush. “Don’t get up, okay?”

“And Scott, where’s-- is he--Mel, is he okay?”

There’s a dreadful pause. Ms. McCall is beginning to look panicked again, and Stiles is already stammering his way to a (terrible) lie. So Derek finally opens his mouth. “He’s okay, Sheriff. He went to call for help.”

He regrets it immediately, because at the first word, John Stilinski’s eyes swing towards him, dizzily latching on to the sight of him and the _look_ of confusion and frustration in his gaze makes Derek want to crawl into a hole.

“What,” Stilinski says slowly, “are you doing here?” The accusation is thick in his voice, even through the pain-laden slur. And Derek suddenly remembers their last interaction had been a week ago, when the Sheriff had fully intended to arrest him and ended up finding him a place to stay. A roof over his head, a place to sleep - all of it under the the condition that _this_ would never happen again.

“I…” Dread pools in the pit of his stomach; a kind of dread that he hasn’t felt in _years._ It’s the dread of a child faced with a disappointed parent. “I heard the gunshots while passing by. Stiles’ Jeep was in the parking lot so I… came to help.” The lie feels like ash in his mouth.

And John Stilinski doesn’t buy it, anymore than Derek would. He can see it on the man’s face. The longer he gazes at him, the more Derek has to fight not to _squirm_.

“Well,” John says after a painful moment of silence, “I’m glad you were here.” Beside him, Stiles winces, and Derek doesn’t have to wonder if Stilinski’s world-weary tone is a bad thing.

Melissa makes sure the Sheriff is stable and helps him sit up. The sirens are close enough that everyone can hear them now.

Derek hesitates.

“You’ll want to get going, son,” the Sheriff says quietly. Not gently, no. If the emotion in his voice could be called kindness, it’s a bitter one. “Before they get here.”

The denial is caught in Derek’s throat. _‘It’s not_ **_me_** _!’_ he wants so badly to shout. But he’s well aware that it’s impossible. That his entire life has been so far out of human law that even the truth would never absolve him. “I-- thank you, sir,” is all he manages to reply.

“Don’t,” the Sheriff orders. “They took my badge. That’s the only reason I’m not arresting you right now, you hear me?”

“Dad--” Stiles hisses urgently.

John points an imperious finger at his son. The gesture sways wide, making the Sheriff’s eyes narrow in concentration. “ _No_. I’m grateful he was here, but he and I had an agreement. Right, _Derek_?”

He swallows, throat suddenly tight. “Yes, sir.” But he doesn’t apologize.

There’s nothing he can say that will go back and make this night any better.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Derek expects Stilinski to show up at the B&B the next morning. He expects to be arrested now that the man has been reinstated as Sheriff. Hell, he expects Celina to inform him that their hospitality has been rescinded after the attack on the station.

But none of that happens. Instead, Derek wakes up from a dead, dreamless sleep to Eliza’s knock on his door and to the realization that it feels like every bone in his body is on fire and like he’s been cut open and filled with _ice_ at the same time. It’s almost noon. He’s completely missed breakfast and _work_ and Eliza keeps knocking on his door but it sounds like she’s taking a _hammer to his skull_. He feels even worse than he did last night, as if the adrenaline had been the only thing keeping him from feeling like _death itself._

Derek is swiftly declared sick ( _sick_ , as if Derek Hale has ever been sick _in his life!_ ) and is ushered onto the couch in the parlor to rest and recover from his “cold.” He’s forbidden from working for the day, left only to lay on the plush sofa and be served soup and semi-flat ginger ale when the nausea hits, in addition to a truly _awful_ homebrew tea that he nearly spits out on the first sip.

“Ah, ah!” Celina tuts at him. She pushes the warm mug back into his hand when he tries to set it on the coffee table. “Drink up. It will have you feeling better in no time. It’s an old family recipe, perfected over generations.”

“It tastes like death and leaf-water,” Derek gripes. “And I’m not sick,” he adds under his breath.

If she hears that last statement, she makes no sign of it, only patting him on the arm with a sympathetic hum. “Nothing I can do for the taste, I’m afraid. We still haven’t figured out how to sweeten it without ruining the health benefits. Drink it all, though, and I’ll give you some sherbet, hmm?”

The entire thing is absolutely absurd. He hasn’t had sherbet since he was a _child_.

He forces himself to drink the entire disgusting concoction, and manages not to grumble into his sherbet reward too much. And maybe he convinces himself that he _does_ feel a little less like death afterward.

This… this is almost worse than being arrested or kicked back out onto the street. Being doted upon when he’s done nothing to deserve it... It feels like deception, like Derek is taking advantage of their ignorance.

Which is why it’s like the universe is righting itself when _Peter_ arrives.

Derek senses the moment Peter steps onto the property, even in his state. He shoots upright so fast that nausea almost overtakes him. His head swims dangerously, only worsening as the sound of Peter’s steady footsteps up the garden path sends terror through his veins. His breathing comes fast and labored. It feels like Peter has stuck a hand into his chest cavity - _again_ \- and is squeezing his lungs. The chime of the doorbell has him jolting into movement, scrambling to untangle the blanket from around his legs.

“Young man, don’t you even _think_ about getting up off that couch!” Eliza scolds on her way into the foyer. “I’ll get the door. You lie back down.”

“Don’t--” he croaks, but the protest lodges in his throat. The animal terror is telling him to run, because Peter has made sure that _fighting_ isn’t an option for him right now. Whatever he’d done to resurrect himself has made Derek _weak_ , even weaker than a Beta. It’s made him easy prey. If Derek doesn’t run, he’s going to _die_ here. But if he runs… if he runs and leaves Eliza and Celina here with Peter, there’s no telling what Peter will do.

He’s halfway off the couch when Eliza answers the door. Derek has the perfect vantage point to see Peter’s carefully charming expression flicker in shock. There’s a beat of silence, where no one moves.

And then Eliza places her hand on her hip. “Why, _Peter Hale_!” she exclaims. “You are the last person I expected to see on my doorstep.”

The smile has slid off Peter’s face, replaced with an expression that Derek would only call _cautious_ in a way that he hasn’t seen since before the fire. Like he’s been completely thrown off balance. “...Miss… Wawrzaszek,” Peter greets slowly, mouth effortlessly curling around the syllables. He fixes the disarming smile back into place, but there’s a new calculation going behind his eyes.

Eliza’s head tilts, continuing as if she isn’t facing what is surely her death - _or Derek’s_. “Didn’t… I hear you had gone missing from Beacon Crossings and presumed dead?”

“Ah. Rumors of my demise were a bit… premature.”

“Hm. Well, we can’t all be perfect. What can I do for you, Mister Hale?”

His uncle’s gaze flickers over Eliza’s head, and Derek ducks back out of sight. It’s a useless attempt, as if Peter can’t hear his heartbeat from a mere ten feet away. He sways to the doorway on unsteady legs, keeping himself out of sight, steeling himself for the inevitable. “I stopped by to speak with my nephew,” Peter says sweetly. “He’s staying here, correct?”

“Since you’re here, I’d say you’d already know the answer to that.”

“Yes, well. May I come in?”

“I’m afraid not. Derek is feeling a little under the weather today. Poor boy. He’s not up for visitors.”

He braves peeking around the doorframe. Eliza has planted herself in the entryway, blocking the towering form of his uncle with all five and a half feet of her. She seems unconcerned with the fact that Peter has a good six inches and at least fifty pounds of muscle on her.

And Celina has appeared in the doorway across from Derek. She catches his eye with a smile that shows a few too many teeth, and leans against the doorjamb to watch the scene unfolding in the foyer.

“If he’s sick, all the more reason for me to see him,” Peter is saying. His honeyed, cajoling voice makes Derek’s skin crawl. “I want to see that he’s alright.”

“He’ll be just fine, I assure you.” And this time Eliza’s words come out with an edge to them. “I’ll tell him you came calling. And once he’s up for it, he can come see you. Where can I tell him that you’re staying?”

Peter lets out a breath of laughter. “Nice try,” he says. “But I’m growing tired of this game. Let me see Derek.”

“Aha-- no.” That… _that_ sounds a little too much like Stiles for Derek to comprehend. “Absolutely not.”

The werewolf’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You’re testing my patience, Elżbieta. I wouldn’t call that _wise_.” Derek takes half a step forward, heart in his throat, but stops as Celina raises a hand towards him. There’s a smile on her face still, growing in wickedness at Peter’s barely veiled threat.

“And you’re testing _mine,_ ” Eliza replies, the sweetness completely gone from her voice now. “And we both know what happens when I’ve lost my patience, don’t we?”

Peter’s eyes flash brilliant blue - a blue that Derek has never seen on Peter before this moment. He knew, yes, he _knew_ they would be now that Peter was a Beta. But to see them makes something cold and sick turn over in Derek’s chest. The growl that leaves Peter’s throat is more animal than human. “If you think I’m scared of--”

“If you aren’t at least a little scared, Peter Hale, then you are a fool.” Eliza sniffs, utterly nonplussed by the snarling werewolf before her. “Congratulations on your return from death, you utter abomination. Good day.” She starts to close the door, only to have Peter slam a hand onto it.

It’s as if all of the air has been sucked from the house. There’s a pull, like the very house is taking a giant breath. A sound that no human could hear, an indescribable rumble, almost a _roar,_  echoes in Derek’s ears an instant before _something_ rushes through the house with enough force to make the windows rattle. And then there’s a crack and a crash as Peter is sent flying from the veranda, with all the force of being hit by a truck.

His uncle goes sprawling across the lawn.

“Peter Hale, if you _ever_ set foot on this property again, you will not claw your way out of your grave after we’re through with you. Do I make myself clear? Good. Now see yourself off of my lawn, child.” She doesn’t wait for Peter to pick himself up, and swings the door closed with a final snap. The house is calm again, but somehow… expectant. “Be a dear,” Eliza says softly, patting the doorjamb, “and add Peter Hale to the blacklist, won’t you darling?”

She’s not talking to Celina, Derek realizes. No, not when there’s another hum from all around them, one that’s much softer, gentler.

And Marcelina Stilinski begins to laugh, loud and sharp and full of utter _joy_. “Ela, _Ela!_ My sweet fire, _moje misiu--_ ”

“Oh, hush, you batty old fool,” Eliza huffs, but there’s a smile on her face even as she does.

Derek finally remembers how to breathe. “What…” He freezes midway into the hall as they turn to look at them. “What the hell was _that_? What did you _do?_ ”

“Me?” Eliza tilts her head gently. “I did nothing, my boy. The house, however…” She looks the same as she always has, which is even more disturbing given what Derek has just witnessed. His body tenses, ready to bolt at the slightest instant. “They say if you care for the house, it will care for you too,” she answers cryptically, patting the doorframe. “Some are more capable than others. Especially with a little push.”

That… doesn’t answer Derek’s question _at all_. All it does is raise _more_. “What are you?” At Celina’s too-sharp smile, he adds, “ _Both_ of you. Are you like Deaton?”

Celina snorts inelegantly. “Like Alan Deaton - an emissary? No, my boy. I acted as one, briefly, for your grandmother when hers passed. A temporary thing until her apprentice was ready. But we are no druids.”

Derek swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Witches, then. You’re witches.”

Eliza shrugs, as if _that_ explains anything, and Celina nods. “Of a sort, yes,” Celina agrees. “Now back to the couch with you, yes?” She makes shooing motions at him, corralling him back into the parlor. And Derek, damn him, goes with little protest. He convinces himself that it’s because it’s horrendously bad form to affront a witch in her home. So he’s herded onto the couch again, pillows fussily propped behind him and a blanket tossed over his lap. Eliza and Celina sink into the armchairs opposite the coffee table.

For a moment, no one says a word.

“What did you do to Peter?” Derek asks at last.

Eliza’s smile is sweet and somehow… carnivorous. “The house doesn’t take kindly to people threatening violence. He was ejected, rather soundly. And now he’s been blacklisted. So should he ever come onto the property again… well, he’ll sorely regret it.”  The sweet nonchalance of her tone sends a shiver down Derek’s spine that has nothing to do with the fever that’s overtaken him.

“So the house, it’s… what, haunted?”

Both of them shake their heads quickly. “Oh, no,” Eliza explains. “It is better to say… that it’s developed its own soul.” She taps her lips thoughtfully. “When a house is old and loved, when it sees countless generations come and go, it acquires a special kind of personality. Do you understand? Even those who are mundane can sense it.”

His mind immediately supplies the memory of his family’s home. How warm and inviting and _safe_ it had felt to him growing up. How he could find memories in every inch of of the house that had been his family’s home for decades. “Yes,” he agrees softly.

“Those houses are special. And sometimes they’re so special that they gain a kind of magic all their own. With the right spell, that magic can be stabilized and directed.” Eliza gestures to the house around her. “And the houses can become their own protectors.”

As if sensing Derek’s growing apprehension, Celina leans across the low table to pat his arm. “You’ll be safe here,” she promises, and Derek is struck by the utter sincerity in it. Her heartbeat doesn’t betray her.

Slowly, his clenched fist uncurls on the arm of the sofa. “Does the Sheriff know?” he questions.

Celina’s brows arch. “About us? You? No. This town was peaceful when he was growing up. The Hales kept it well under control. Janek never had the gift, so he was never told. It was never something he had to worry about.” She frowns. “Though it certainly seems to be becoming one.”

Derek does his best not to flinch - not to look as guilty as he feels. It seems Celina notices anyway, because she offers him a small, understanding smile.

“Claudia was much the same,” Eliza adds mournfully. “She showed some potential. I kept waiting for it to manifest but…”

When they don’t continue, Derek presses: “And Stiles…?”

Both of them let out soft sounds of acknowledgment. “We’ve been waiting for him,” Eliza says. “He never showed more than a passing inclination before.”

“And then he’s running off into the night after ‘wolves and forming a Pack with Scott McCall like he was made for it.” There’s a sharp fondness in Celina’s smile. “And Deaton tells me he’s ashed in a building already.”

Derek isn’t sure why he’s surprised to hear they’re in close contact with Deaton. By all rights, he shouldn’t be at this point.

“Keep this between us,” Eliza requests. “At least until we have a chance to tell him.” And Derek agrees to it, because there’s not much else he can do.

 _‘If Stiles and Scott can keep secrets,’_ he thinks bitterly, _‘so can I.’_

He lets them fuss over him, let’s them make sure he’s comfortable again, that he’s warm and will rest. “You know I’m not sick,” he sighs at them.

“No,” Eliza admits, “but whatever ritual your uncle used drained you. Even an Alpha needs rest after that. Rest, and a little bit of home remedy.”

Derek’s stomach rebels at the very idea. “I’m not drinking another of those ever again,” he croaks.

“You’ll have to with your dinner. It’ll fix you right up.”

Derek sighs. “What’s even in it?”

“You’re probably better off not knowing,” she soothes, patting his hair and laughing when he glares at her for it. “Get some rest, dear.”

After they’ve gone, leaving him in relative silence, he dozes and doesn’t open his eyes again until the air in the room shifts. Derek finds no one in the room. He can hear that Eliza and Celina have gone out back, talking in low murmurs. But…

There’s a glass of lemonade on the table next to him.

For a long time Derek just stares at it, unsure if what he’s seeing is real. He looks around at the empty room, at the empty _house_ that might not, in fact, be as empty as it appears. And then he carefully picks up the glass and takes a sip. It’s tart and sweet, the same lemonade that Celina made two days ago - currently sitting in a pitcher in the refrigerator.

“...Thank you,” he says into the silence.

He’s definitely not imagining the gentle, lilting sound, almost like laughter, that rises to meet his words.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Melissa McCall is the last person Derek expects to see sitting on the steps of his family’s home.

Derek nearly slams on his breaks when he sees her. He’s been listening to the unfamiliar heartbeat the whole way up from the main road. But Melissa McCall hadn’t even been in the top five of his guesses. He watches her from the safety of the Camaro’s tinted windows the entire way up the drive. She doesn’t stare back, averting her eyes to her hands as he pulls to a stop.

She’s kind enough to wait until Derek gets out of the car. “Flashy car for a werewolf,” she observes as he shuts the door. “I thought you guys weren’t supposed to draw attention to yourselves.”

“Buying flashy cars isn’t strictly a werewolf thing,” he replies. He nods towards it absently.“...It was my sister’s. Technically it’s still in her name.”

“Oh.” Melissa clears her throat. There’s an awkward, clumsy pause, where Derek tries in vain to figure a stance that won’t come off as threatening.

“What can I do for you, Ms. McCall?” he finally asks. The polite words feel wooden on his tongue. He’s spent the months since Laura’s death finding every possible way to keep people - people who have, nine times out of ten, wanted to kill him - at bay. Interaction that doesn’t include snarling, glaring, or outright attacking is beginning to feel… foreign.

Melissa stands, and Derek tries not to let her position on the top step rankle him. She’s not a threat. There’s no reason for him to feel as disadvantaged as he does in that moment. “I came… to invite you to lunch.”

That… yeah, that’s not what Derek expects to hear. “What?”

“You,” she repeats slowly. “Are invited. To lunch. At my house. Immediately.” Her tone brooks no room for argument, but Derek tries anyway.

“I was coming here to look through our old books,” is his weak attempt. “About the kanima.”

“Mm. Good. You can just put whatever books you find in your car and come over. I have questions, and you’re going to answer them.”

“I--” His next words are quelled by the sudden fierceness in her glare. “...Y-Yes ma’am.”

The glare melts into a sweet smile, edged with steel. “Okay!” she chirps, patting his shoulder as she passes him on the way to her car. She’s not afraid to get into his space this time, or _is afraid_ and purposefully doing it to throw him off balance. Whichever it is… it works. “Since you’ve been sneaking into my son’s room, I’m sure you know how to get there?”

What Derek can only call his _dignity_ withers in his chest. “Uh. Yes ma’am.”

And that is how Derek finds himself sitting in Melissa McCall’s dining room, feeling like a man on the chopping block as she sets down a sandwich in front of him.

It looks delicious. And he _is_ hungry.

He’s no less afraid.

“You look like you could use a good meal,” Melissa remarks, urging him to eat. “I thought Eliza and Celina were feeding you now.”

“They are,” he answers hesitantly. “I just haven’t been… feeling well since that night at the station.”

“Because of the kanima?”

Derek shakes his head. “Something… else happened. Before I came to help.” He attempts to ignore her; to pretend this isn’t going to be an inquisition. It’s difficult when she watches him eat, her own sandwich untouched.

There’s a pattern of bruises around her neck that hadn’t been there the night of the attack.

Derek sets the sandwich back down. “Are you alright?”

“No,” she says, voice tight. “I want answers. I want to know how Scott got… involved in this. _What_ he’s involved in.”

And then the questions start. And once they do, they don’t stop. But Derek would be lying if he said he didn’t owe her _some_ kind of explanation. It’s more than he gave Scott in the beginning, when Scott actually needed it.

How long have you been a werewolf? Since he was born. Yes, he’s always been like this.

Was your family like this? For how long? Yes, most of them. His father had been Bitten, his mother’s line known for their strong and abundant ‘wolf children. Of he and his siblings, four of the five of them had been born ‘wolves. His mother’s siblings had all been ‘wolves. His cousins - now affiliated with other Packs - are all a mix of ‘wolf, shifter, and otherwise gifted humans. As far back as their family history tells them, they have always been ‘wolves. And that history goes back a long, _long_ way.

What’s an Alpha? A leader of the Pack. The conduit that keeps the Pack together. A more powerful werewolf whose job is to protect their Pack and their territory. They’re the one who create Betas through the Bite, who teach young werewolves how to control their shift.

“You’re the Alpha,” is what Melissa says after hearing that.

“...Yes.”

“So you’re the one who… bit Scott.”

Derek can’t help the way he recoils at the, albeit gentle, accusation. “ _No_ ,” he cries out. And then softer: “No, that was Peter.”

“Peter as in… Peter Hale? Your comatose uncle?” Ms. McCall’s brow furrows, as if she’s just now thinking about her words. “I thought you guys healed from almost anything. Can you put a werewolf in coma?”

“Not like Peter’s - not from physical wounds. If a werewolf is badly injured, they either heal or… they don’t,” Derek explains. His appetite has shriveled into nothing now, and he pushes the plate away. “But Peter… losing our Pack, being cut off is worse than any physical pain. It breaks you. Some survivors don’t recover. Laura and I, we never thought Peter would.”

“But he did.”

Derek shrugs helplessly. “He was starting to. His nurse told Laura, and she came to see him. But Peter… all he thought about was revenge, and the power he’d need to do it. So he... he killed Laura, and became the Alpha.” His voice cracks over the words, making him grimace. Melissa’s eyes widen, whether from the information or his show of emotion, he’s not sure. But she doesn’t push for more. She just waits him out while he gathers himself. “And then he forced the Bite on Scott. Which is-- you don’t do that. Even Peter considered it deplorable before all of this. He was so far gone that he didn’t even hesitate.”

The house falls into silence around them. Melissa averts her eyes to the table. She fidgets with her hands for a while, her expression troubled. “And… you became the Alpha… by killing him.” It’s not exactly a question.

Derek can’t find the strength to look at her anymore. “Peter was never going to stop killing,” he intones. “Becoming an Alpha, it changes you. Not always for the better.”

“Right. So you killed him, became the Alpha, and the kanima showed up--”

“My fault,” Derek blurts, and then clears his throat. “Jackson. He-- I gave him the Bite first. And instead he became the kanima. None of us know why.”

“And then the hunters showed up.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Melissa says finally. “It… sounds like you’ve been through a lot.” When he only shrugs, unable to find the words to that, she looks at him with something sad in her eyes. It’s uncomfortably close to pity.

His unlikely savior comes dashing in a moment later. The front door slams, accompanied with a shout of “Mom!” and Scott’s clumsy teenage form comes skidding into the doorway. He freezes upon seeing the pair of them just… sitting at the table. And Derek can’t deny that the apprehension in Scott’s eyes stings. “...Derek.”

“Scott,” he greets hesitantly. And that is definitely his cue to leave. He can’t _be here_ with Scott looking at him like that. Not when he knows who Scott’s been working with, whose side he’s chosen. He stands, nodding to Ms. McCall. “I’ll show myself out. Thanks for lunch.”

He absolutely doesn’t flinch as he brushes past Scott for the door.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Scott doesn’t let his mother speak until he’s sure Derek is well out of hearing range. He should feel guilty about that. He _does_ feel guilty about that. He feels guilty about a lot of things these days. “Are you okay?” he asks frantically once he’s sure Derek can no longer hear them.

His mom frowns at him. “Yeah…”

“He didn’t threaten you, did he? Or… or try to convince you to make me join his Pack?”

“What? Scott, honey, no. I invited _him_.”

“Oh.” The guilt is back full force. He knows, he _knows_ that Derek wouldn’t _hurt her_ . He’s not the same kind of Alpha Peter was. Even if Scott _worries_ about Derek’s methods sometimes, he’s never proven to be like Peter. But even still… the terror of his mother being in harm’s way is still fresh in his mind. And Scott can’t risk it anymore.

Melissa’s words catch up to him.

“You what?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “I… I asked him to come over. I had to get answers from _someone_.”

Scott cringes. “I’m sorry--”

“No, no it’s… it’s okay.” For the first time in days, his mother steps forward and embraces him. Scott is _not_ ashamed to say that he clings to her just a little bit tighter than usual. She rubs at his back, as if she knows that he’s been barely keeping it together for… well, for a long time.

“You know what I said yesterday? About giving that man whatever he wants?” she whispers.

“Yeah…”

She pulls away enough to look him in the eye. “Forget every word I said,” she tells him earnestly. “He’s going to hurt people, right? Don’t give him the satisfaction of rolling over. If you… If you can _help_ someone, Scott, you do it. I know you will.”

The tight knot of anxiety that’s been sitting in his chest for weeks doesn’t quite ease, but it subsides. Something else is drowning it out now - it’s the validation he needed. “I know. I… I’m going to do everything I can,” he promises. “I’m not going to let him hurt anyone.”

He just hopes everything goes to plan.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------ 

_Next:_

_Side A, Ch6_

_Jackson Whittemore is dead._ **_A child_ ** _is dead, murdered right in front of John and everyone on that field, and no one saw a thing._

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

**END CHAPTER 4.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything about the rest of the evening is a blur. Until it all comes to a crashing halt, with Gerard on his deathbed, the kanima impaled on his claws, Jackson Whittemore’s miraculous revival and Scott…
> 
>  _Scott._ Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT so we've finally come up to the end of season 2. Which is... we all know that's a contentious point in the series for a lot of people. I dealt with the various character motivations and actions in what I think is a pretty fair way, but we'll see if it comes across that way.
> 
> Happy reading!

 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------ 

_Before:_

_Side A, Ch6_

_Jackson Whittemore is dead._ **_A child_ ** _is dead, murdered right in front of John and everyone on that field, and no one saw a thing._  

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

Everything about the rest of the evening is a blur. Until it all comes to a crashing halt, with Gerard on his deathbed, the kanima impaled on his claws, Jackson Whittemore’s miraculous revival and Scott…

 _Scott._ Fuck.

Just thinking his name has Derek feeling ill all over again. Makes him think of Gerard’s foul blood filling his mouth. Of Gerard’s smug grin. Of Scott gazing down at him, face startlingly impassive, foreign from everything Derek thought he knew about the boy, and his hands holding Derek still - trapped, immobile--

 _‘No.’_ He shoves the thoughts violently away. If he stops to process it, he’s going to go low and useless. And he can’t-- Gerard may have disappeared, but he’s still alive. Chris Argent and his daughter are still present, and could turn on them at any moment.

Scott is glowering at him, and now Derek doesn’t have the strength to trust that the boy won’t lash out.

“How could you do that?” Scott hisses at him. It sounds like a gunshot in the stillness of the warehouse now. “We were supposed to _save_ Jackson, not kill him!”

“He’s fine,” Derek grunts. Relatively, anyway. Stiles has - with a token reluctance - dragged an emergency blanket from the back of the Jeep and offered it to the naked, trembling teenager. He’s still huddled against Lydia Martin’s side, refusing to look at any of them. But he’s certainly _alive_ , which is more than Derek ever expected.

“You _stabbed him,_ Derek!”

“I was _trying_ to save us all,” he snaps. “Not just a few of us.”

“No, you were trying to save _yourself._ ”

Derek thinks of Isaac, stabbed and tossed around the building as if he were nothing. About Boyd and Erica tortured in an Argent basement. About Stiles beaten and dropped on the street as a warning, about him driving his Jeep through a wall despite his injuries. And Derek’s fury wells up inside him, a spitting, feral thing that claws up his throat. “You’ve got no right to say that. You were so concerned with your stupid little plan that you didn’t _care_ who got hurt. Did you even stop to look for Stiles? Or Boyd, or Erica?”

“Hey,” Stiles mutters from where he’s swaying into Boyd’s space. The taller boy is supporting him at the elbow. “Leave me out of this.” But Scott swivels his head around to look at Stiles anyway. Derek watches as the boy’s expression shudders and crumples, seeming to finally realize that the state of his best friend’s face didn’t come from crashing the Jeep. That the scents of blood and pain on him are hours old.

“Stiles…”

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “Come on, man, not with the Face. I’m okay, see? Just…” But he winces as he goes to gesture reassuringly. “Just fine.”

“What happened?” Scott persists.

Derek cuts off Stiles’ inevitable dismissal with a snarl. “Gerard happened. While you were worrying about your precious girlfriend, he was kidnapping your best friend and beating the shit out of him!”

“She’s not… we’re not anymore--”

“All you cared about was her, and she stabbed us all in the back, Scott!” He gestures angrily at the Argent girl, who flinches and squares her jaw. “Or do you even care that she was torturing your friends? Did you only care about keeping your secrets and that Gerard made some bullshit promise in exchange for my life--”

“He was gonna hurt my mom, you hypocritical ass!” The words explode out of Scott with enough force that Derek’s mouth clicks shut. “You think I owe you the truth when all you’ve done is keep secrets too? When you were working with Peter to _kill_ Jackson?”

Peter steps forward, smarmy grin in place already. “Actually, there was a plan there. Several legends reference shifters being ‘cured’ by calling their name - by reminding them of who they are. That’s why Lydia was so important--”

“ _Peter_ ,” Derek barks, his eyes never straying from the irate teenager in front of him. “Shut up.”

“Don’t talk to me about Stiles getting hurt,” Scott continues with his tirade, “like you _care_. You sent your Betas after him before, remember? You didn’t care about him getting hurt then.”

Derek cringes. “I didn’t--”

“And after then you tried to kill Lydia - because you _suspected_ she was the kanima. You didn’t even have any real proof, Derek! The only thing you cared about was how quickly you could make this go away. You didn’t care who had to die for it.” Scott throws up his arms, his expression twisted in distress. “I was trying to keep anyone else from dying! I was doing everything I could.”

“You could’ve told me,” Derek growls back. The hint of desperation in his own voice alarms him. The squirming, anxious feeling in his chest that begs to fix this, to hope that Scott doesn’t _actually want him dead_ is something he doesn’t want to examine.

“If I thought you would listen, I would have! But you would have just… just growled at me and then do whatever the hell you wanted - and get some of us killed. You’re not my Alpha, Derek. I don’t owe you my trust when you sure as hell haven’t earned it.”

So that’s it, then.

A hopeless frustration rises like bile up his throat. “Why should I bother earning your trust when all it gets me is being turned into an Argent’s tool?” he finishes. His voice comes out icy, and not at all hurt, which is… better.

And Scott flinches back, as sure as if Derek had struck him. The righteous anger gives way to pain and _guilt_ and for a quick, infuriating moment, Derek’s own guilt rises to meet it. He shoves the feeling down ruthlessly, squaring his jaw.

Stiles chooses that moment to step between them, or attempt something like it. He more sways into their space, cringing and balancing himself with a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough. Both of you need to shut it. This entire thing was a barely mitigated disaster and you both fucked up royally. We managed. The end. Can we go home now, please?”

Scott turns to the boy with wounded eyes. “Stiles, you’re--” he stops, and Derek can actually see the words “you’re taking his side?” starting to form. Whether or not he stops because he sees Derek’s glare, or something else, is yet to be seen. Scott’s brow puckers in hurt and betrayal - something that satisfies the most vindictive parts of Derek’s mind. “Are you mad at me?” he asks Stiles, his voice small.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles answers emphatically. “You did your best, dude. And we all survived. But you didn’t let me in on this either.” He reaches out for Scott’s shoulder. “He was threatening your _mom_ , man. I would’ve helped. Somehow. I know I’m just the token human, but I’m not useless.”

“You’re not just the token human,” Scott protests.

“Sure thing, buddy,” Stiles agrees, his tone clearly distant and disbelieving. But before the other boy can work up an argument, his eyes zero in on Derek. “Are we done here? I want to go home.”

And Derek, really, can’t think of any reason to deny him. Not after everything.

Stiles takes his silence as assent, and tugs on Scott’s arm. “Cool. You’re comin’ back with me, right?”

Scott nods, seemingly unable to deny him either.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

His dad is waiting on the porch for them when the Jeep pulls into the driveway. Luckily, the Roscoe is a sturdy old girl and the darkness hides the new scratches on the front end. On top of everything, Stiles really hates the thought of trying to come up with an explanation for them that doesn’t include driving through a flimsy steel wall and an _actual goddamned lizard monster._

Every muscle in his body wrenches as Stiles slides from the driver’s seat. His head swims, but he manages to stay upright this time, aware of his dad watching him like a hawk from the house. He waves sheepishly as he rounds the car towards Scott, who’s trying and failing to look casual about the whole thing.

He keeps hold of Scott’s arm the whole way up to the porch. It’s all he can do not to topple over. Everything _hurts._ “Heeeey, Daddio,” he greets.

John isn’t impressed.

“So, sorry for running off. Emergency, you know. Scott was stranded.” Stiles leans forward, the illusion of a conspiratorial whisper ruined by his inability to keep his own balance. “He and Allison split.”

It’s mostly true, anyway. Scott had been left without a ride home and Stiles can safely say his and Allison’s relationship is over after this. And Scott is looking suitably guilty and dejected to go with it.

His dad doesn’t even blink. “And Miss Reyes and Mister Boyd?” he asks.

“Oh, they decided they’d go home tonight after all. Called Derek over to take them.”

“Mmhm.”

Stiles nods in unison with him. “Right. So we’re just gonna… go to bed. It’s alright if Scott stays over?”

“Sure, son.”

Stiles fights to keep his smile in place. Because even though his father is agreeing, he’s humoring Stiles. His tone is full of that careful patience that he only uses when there’s a Discussion coming as soon as it’s just the two of them again. He nudges Scott’s arm to get him moving. “Night, Dad!” he calls, a little too brightly.

“We’re taking you to the hospital to get you looked over in the morning!” John shouts after them. “And we’re getting your statement too.”

“Sure thing, Dad!” Stiles already has a passable story lined up to take care of that. He knows how this works. It was dark, he’ll say. They weren’t wearing school jerseys but they talked about the game, he’ll say. He didn’t recognize them from Beacon Hills, but they could’ve been at the game. He’ll tell them they had average builds and wore hoodies. He couldn’t see their faces. It was over too quick. And that’ll be the end of it.

Except for the fact that his dad isn’t going to be letting Stiles out of his sight any time soon. But he’ll deal with that when they come to it.

“Are you okay?” Scott whispers after they’ve slowly hobbled their way up the stairs.

“M’fine,” Stiles grunts.

“No, you’re not.”

No, he’s not. Every step makes his ribs pull, and he’s seriously regretting his knee-jerk decision to drive his poor Jeep through a wall. The jarring definitely didn’t help the injuries he’s already working with.

“I’ll live,” he sighs.

But Scott’s got that hangdog look on his face, eyes sad and pleading. “Let me see?”

Stiles considers deflecting again. But the fact of the matter is that he’s _exhausted_ and his whole body aches, and fighting with his best friend over stupid shit just really isn’t on his list of things to do right now. “Yeah, okay. Gonna need you to help me change, anyway.”

This doesn’t seem to reassure Scott in the least, because his eyes go, if possible, even rounder and sadder. “Is it that bad?”

Stiles hunches his shoulders without answer. He can’t quite make it to a shrug, because his back seizes and makes his breath catch in his aching chest. Instead he beckons Scott over as he starts to work his flannel off and the shirt up over his torso. Scott has to lift it over his head, his fingers warm where they brush against his chilly skin. He suppresses a shiver, if only because it would hurt like a bitch. Stupid, warm-running werewolves.

He steels himself for Scott’s horrified gasp, pointedly not meeting his eyes. “It looks worse than it is,” he tries.

Scott doesn’t say anything. Stiles busies himself with balling up his shirts and tossing them away, trying very hard not to be aware of how his best friend hovers in horrified silence beside him.

The hesitant caress of fingers across his side makes him jump, and nearly collapse as his body _violently_ protests. “Sorry!” Scott chokes, sliding in closer to support Stiles’ weight. His hold is firmer, but still gentle. Like Stiles is going to break if he doesn’t have a good enough grip. Which is… embarrassing. Yeah, he’ll go with that. The flush rises high on his cheeks.

“Dude--” His dismissal cuts off, because the pain abruptly fades away. There’s a rush of warmth and relief, sending gooseflesh up and down arms. His mind blurs as it tries to comprehend what’s happening to his body, a dizzy but not unpleasant feeling.

The veins on Scott’s arms have gone black.

“ _Stop that._ ” Stiles swats weakly at Scott’s hands. His fingers are sluggish, like they’ve been filled with syrup instead of blood.

“He hurt you,” Scott says thickly. And Stiles can’t tell if that’s a statement or a question. He watches the emotions play across his friend’s face, too many and too intense for him to catalogue them all. “He hurt you because of me.”

“What? Hey, no…”

Scott’s eyes swing sharply up to meet his and they’re suspiciously bright. “You’re lying.”

Stiles huffs, dismayed. “You didn’t even let me say anything!”

“Your heartbeat was already off.”

“At least let me come up with one first!”

“He did, then,” Scott persists. “He hurt you because it’d get to me.”

“Well… well, yeah,” Stiles rambles helplessly. “But, y’know, he’s a raging asshole. Even by Argent standards. He gets his rocks off by performing nasty hemicorporectomy procedures - and not having the decency to call it straight up murdering people - and brainwashing his granddaughter and torturing teenagers, so he can’t be expected--” Scott’s expression crumples abruptly, and Stiles’ heart does a terrifying flip. “Oh no. No, come on, Scotty, please.”

“It’s my fault,” he declares miserably. His breath hitches around the words, the telltale beginnings of a sob, and it makes Stiles’ chest wrench painfully, even worse than his bruised ribs. There’s tears gathering at Scott’s lashes, and it’d be almost pretty if it weren’t so _awful_.

“H-Hey, no way. It’s not like that,” Stiles tries desperately to soothe. It doesn’t seem to help, because the first fat tear escapes, followed by another and another. Stiles’ eyes trace their path, his lungs squeezing tight. “ _Scott._ ” He does the only thing he can, and pulls Scott into him. The boy goes willingly, easily, all but molding himself into Stiles’ side.

There’s a moment of horrible silence where Scott holds his breath, trying to suppress the sobs that are already fighting to break free. The drip of hot tears on his bare shoulder has Stiles shivering; he presses his hands to Scott’s back, so utterly unsure about how to help, how to fix this.

“It’s okay,” he attempts helplessly.

Scott is disturbingly quiet for a long while. “I’m sorry,” he whispers once. And then quieter, almost inaudibly. Stiles can feel it better than he can hear it, as it’s pressed into his shoulder over and over again like he’s trying to imprint the words into Stiles’ skin.

“Hey,” he calls gently. “I’m okay. See?” His voice comes out slightly frantic despite himself. “Hey, look at me.” Stiles nudges him until Scott leans back - which is a good thing, because Stiles doesn’t currently have the balance or strength to support both of them. The vulnerable, anguished sheen in his best friend’s eyes is enough to scatter his thoughts. He’s so close, so hurt and so fucking _miserable and guilty_ and all Stiles wants to do is…

No. Not a good idea.

“I’m alright,” is all he manages to come up with. He plasters on a self-deprecating grin and aims for humor when all else fails. “We’ll just call it payback for me dragging you into the Preserve and getting you Bit, right? I get you viciously attacked by a crazy - now zombie - werewolf, the hunter who comes after you for it attacks me. Now we’re even.”

It seems to be the exact wrong thing to say. At the very least, it does the job of getting Scott’s tears to dry up and for him to give Stiles a wet glare instead. “It’s not… It’s not about payback.”

“Sure it is. You don’t have to worry about me getting hurt because I’m the one that started this. It’s my fault you got Bit, Scott. You would’ve been… I dunno, still fighting to make the first line and trying to impress Allison if it wasn’t for me.” Their lives are so fucked up now that the both of them being social nobodies are considered happier times. Three months ago that would have been unthinkable, _laughable_ even.

“It doesn’t _work_ like that!” Scott reprimands, his voice still thick with tears.

Of course it does, Stiles wants to explain. People, if not the universe _in general_ , have always worked like that. Cause and effect work like that. People’s mistakes sometimes cause pain and misfortune. Or sometimes people just hold grudges.

Sometimes the universe punishes you for not being a good enough son, spacey and hyperactive and not observant enough to the things that really matter. Sometimes your mom dies when you wander off for that one moment where the hospital has become too painful and too boring. Sometimes your dad can’t take how bad of a kid you are, and sometimes you’re sure he’s adopted your best friend as the better son.

But none of this… none of this is anything Stiles can form into words. Or wants to.

And Scott, damn him, reads his sullen silence like an old pro. “Do you really think you’re the weak link with us?”

He shrugs uselessly. “Well, y’know. Human. Not even a useful human. At least Allison is trained to fight. Even… even if she wasn’t really on our side at the end this time.”

“You’re not useless,” Scott insists. His brow furrows stubbornly when Stiles’ frown only deepens. “I would’ve died so many times if it wasn’t for you. I never would’ve made it to getting Bitten if I didn’t have you.” He says it so earnestly, without even the barest trace doubt in his voice. And Stiles can’t help the little tendril of warmth that curls around his heart.

“Aw, geez,” he huffs.

“It’s true.”

“Just… let’s just shut up and go to bed okay? It’s getting hard to keep standing.” He’s not above using his (minor! Totally minor!) injuries to get his best friend to stop that line of thought.

Predictably, the blossoming affection on Scott’s face slips away into worry. Just like that his hands are on Stiles’ arms again. “Right! God, I’m sorry, Stiles. Here.”

Stiles rolls his eyes as he’s led to bed. But his protests are just met with tutting and gentle hands supporting him as he kicks out of his pants and climbs into his bed at a glacial pace. Scott even tugs his socks off to keep him from twisting painfully and pulls the covers up over him.

“You’re the best, dude,” Stiles sighs happily, patting the space beside him.

Scott snorts quietly - like he doesn’t believe it. What a hypocrite, giving Stiles The Eyes when he can’t even take a compliment himself. He does his best not to watch as Scott tugs his shirt over his head; to not let his eyes trace the rippling lines of muscle that hadn’t been there just last year. He picks at the blanket, resolutely Not Looking. (If he doesn’t look, he doesn’t have to confront the increasingly apparent notion that he is really, really Not Straight.) The last thing Stiles needs on top of everything else is to make this awkward.

It still doesn’t stop him from sliding into Scott’s space once the other boy climbs into bed with him. Because now this is familiar. Lying curled up facing Scott, close enough to whisper and smother laughter into the pillows long into the night is something he’s done since pre-school. Scott’s never voiced any worries about it being “weird” yet, and Stiles isn’t about to ask.

The bone-deep exhaustion takes hold once they’ve settled. The adrenaline has long since drained from Stiles, and even the anxiety isn’t going to keep him awake for long. He wonders, briefly, if Scott is even capable of being exhausted now. Does his new healing keep him alert and painless? Or does he still feel the aches and pulls even after his wounds heal? Does he have the ghosts of catastrophic injuries even after the skin and muscle and bone has knitted back together?

The syrupy, weightless feeling is back. Stiles blinks open his eyes, and finds Scott watching him, his hand resting gently on Stiles’ outstretched arm. “Quit,” he admonishes.

“You’re in pain, though.”

“And now you are, and that doesn’t make me feel better. Okay?” He shifts his arm, grasping Scott’s hand. But he thinks better of pushing it away when the black streaking veins fade back into his friend’s smooth skin. “I’ll let you take a little in the morning. If I’m having trouble.”

“Okay.”

The silence is kinder this time as it settles around them.

“Hey, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

Scott sniffles. “I’m sorry I never told you about the plan.”

He sighs. “I forgive you, dude.” He _does_ , even if it still hurts. “I would’ve helped, y’know?”

“I know. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. But you did anyway.”

“Yeah, I did. But I got hurt because Gerard was a _gigantic fuckwad_ and not because of anything you did.”

Scott clearly ignores his attempt at placing the blame ( _where the blame belongs_ ), because his frown becomes determined. “It’s not going to be like this next time.”

Stiles lifts his head off the pillow slightly. “Hm?”

He’s still holding Scott’s hand, and Scott doesn’t seem to want to let go. “I haven’t been… the best person, since all of this. I haven’t been the best student, or thebest son, and not the best friend either.”

“Hey, no--”

“I want to be better,” Scott steamrolls on, as if Stiles hasn’t even opened his mouth. “I know I can be better. I can work harder, and learn more. I’ve got all this new power but… but the only thing I’ve been using it for is playing lacrosse and trying not to die.”

“We’ve _all_ been trying not to die, man,” Stiles urges.

“I know. But I… _I_ want to be better. If this is supposed to be a gift, then I need to start making it one.” Scott’s eyes are far off, even as he absently plays with the pads of Stiles’ fingers. Stiles has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep still, to keep from drawing attention to it. “I’m sick of feeling like this is a curse. And it’s not gonna change unless I change it.”

“You don’t need to be ‘better,’” Stiles defends. “You’re already better than anyone I know.”

But Scott isn’t convinced. Stiles isn’t even sure Scott has heard him. His eyes are far away, and Stiles can’t suppress the swell of petty distaste - not directed at Scott, exactly. _‘I’m right here,’_ he thinks. _‘Look at me._ **_Listen._** _’_

Scott hasn’t been “here” for months, even though he’s never left Stiles’ side. And Stiles…

Fuck, he’d give anything to have that boy back, the one who wasn’t burdened by murder and invasion and the lives of everyone he knows.

Because Stiles could help that boy - the boy with the normal teenage problems like lack of popularity and finding a girlfriend. This… Stiles can only hang on and hope Scott doesn’t realize he has no idea what he’s doing.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

The breathing of the boys inside slows and deepens, but it doesn’t make Derek feel any better. He sits on the Stilinski rooftop, tucking his leather jacket around him to fight off the early spring chill, and shrinks away from view. The last thing he needs tonight is for the Sheriff to find out he’s up here - another disappointment to the man in a long string of them.

After everything, and maybe even despite everything, Derek had to know that Scott and Stiles made it home unharmed. (Or not any _more_ harmed, in Stiles’ case.) He’d directed Boyd, Erica, and Isaac to the B&B for the night, and had backtracked all the way to the Stilinski house instead of joining them. He’d just wanted to check on them. But what he’d found hadn’t made the sick feeling deep in his belly go away at all.

 _“I want to be better,”_ Scott had said.

 _“I know I can be better,”_ he’d said.

 _“I’ve got all this power, but all I use it for is trying not to die,”_ he’d said.

 _“The only thing you cared about was how quickly you could make this go away,”_ he’d said, back in the warehouse, his eyes flickering a defiant Beta gold. _“You didn’t care who had to die for it.”_

 _“You’re the one who doesn’t belong, Derek. You’re the only piece that doesn’t fit,”_ Gerard had sneered as Scott held his head back, forcing him to bare his throat, eventually - Derek had been so sure at the time - for a blade.

He feels sick all over again, and leaps down off the roof. He sets off at a run, desperate to feel the burn in his lungs and the pull in his muscles, anything to drown out his circling thoughts. Derek is halfway to Celina and Eliza’s before the coherent thought surfaces:

He’s nothing like his mother. Or Laura.

He has none of the traits he so admired in them as Alphas. His mother had been a shining beacon for so many people, both magical and mundane alike. Both the people of the town and Packs across the country looked to her for guidance. She’d embodied everything Derek thought an alpha _should_ be: kind and steadfast; firm when it was needed; open and loving to her Pack. Brave and strong as the hardest steel towards threats, but never seeking violence. And Laura, who’d become his Alpha in the aftermath of fire and death that had ripped their world apart, had done everything she could to be the Alpha they both needed. She may not have been their mother, but Laura had all the traits and abilities that a good Alpha was supposed to embody.

And Derek… Derek has none of that. The only thing he’s done is swing wildly between one life-or-death situation and the next, scrambling just to keep his head above water let alone keeping his own Betas alive.

They deserve more than that. They deserve more than a fuckup of an Alpha. The memories of his mother and sister, and his whole Pack, deserve more than that.

They deserve better than what Derek has given them up until now.

How he could possibly begin to fix that, though, is another question entirely. And not one he has the energy to dwell on tonight.

He absently pats the garden gate as he nears the Marcella’s Bed & Breakfast, not in the least bit surprised when it seems to swing open of its own accord. The moment Derek steps foot inside the property line, a wave of soothing warmth rushes over him, like easing into a soft bed or a hot bath at the end of the day. “Hi,” he sighs under his breath.

The lilac bushes near the veranda rustle in answer. They’re going to bloom soon, the flower clusters fat and already fragrant to Derek’s nose. The air smells of spring, of earth and growth and comfort, perhaps even more so inside the property line due to the house’s strange magic.

The door eases open as he’s climbing the front stairs, but not because of any supernatural force this time. Eliza’s soft eyes sparkle at him from just beyond the doorway, Celina standing mere steps behind. He takes one look at their solemn faces and flinches despite himself. “I’m sorry for not calling ahead about Isaac, Boyd, and Erica,” he says guiltily.

Celina waves his apology away. “Your Betas are asleep upstairs. We put them in the family suite near your room.”

“They fought sleeping while you were still out,” Eliza adds gently, “but the house took care of that.”

“It can do that?” Derek asks, giving the seemingly benign house a dubious look.

“Not in so many words.” Eliza pats the door frame, beckoning Derek inside. “It only does a remarkable job at making people feel safe within its walls.” That, at least, is a feeling Derek recognizes. Almost immediately so as the door closes behind him. The old Victorian house is soothing in a way no house has been since his family’s home had been destroyed.

“Here, let us have a look at you,” Celina urges brusquely. She steps into Derek’s space without a thought, hands cupping his face so she can get a good look into his eyes. The unwavering touch shocks him, his whole body jerking, but not necessarily away from her. Her hands are warm and soft.

The last person that had touched him with such gentleness had been Laura. The realization makes his throat grow tight. Everything since then had been violent or nauseatingly sexual. Not even Scott or Stiles have ever touched him outside of force or desperation - dragging his injured or barely conscious body around not because they’d like to, but because they had to. Or like what happened tonight--

Derek shuts his eyes against the thought.

“Can you feel him?” Celina asks gravely. “Argent?”

He sighs. “Not yet.” He doesn’t ask how she knows about what happened tonight. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Well, if we are lucky that means it didn’t take. Even if Scott’s little trick doesn’t kill him.”

 _‘How much do you know? Were you in on it too?’_ The questions are on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t voice them. Derek can’t take another blow like that tonight. “Scott wouldn’t do that,” he answers instead.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Eliza agrees.

“But he’s not going to have to,” Celina adds pointedly. She smoothes down Derek’s lapels, a gesture so motherly that his heart aches.

Derek blinks at them. “What do you mean?” Celina doesn’t answer, but her smile is sharp as she steps back.

Eliza takes his arm, guiding him towards the stairs. “We’ve offered our aid to Doctor Deaton, in ensuring that Gerard Argent is no longer a threat,” she says sweetly.

“You--” Derek lets out an incredulous breath. “You’re going to hunt him down. With Deaton.”

“Oh yes. Alan’s given the typical speech about the balance being threatened, but I feel he’s doing it for the same reason as Celina and I.”

“And that would be?” Irritation and exhaustion gives his voice an edge. He doesn’t mean to be rude, not to them, but he’s just had _enough_ tonight.

“On top of being a reprehensible _abomination of a man_ ,” Eliza explains patiently, “he’s gone and threatened those we love.” She squeezes his arm, her smile sweet and knowing, and somehow just a touch _wicked_. “And we can’t have that.”

It’s not fear, but guilt that immediately swamps Derek. Of course, they would know about what happened to Stiles. Of course, they’d know that the Sheriff had been attacked at the station. Of _course_ , they’d know that Gerard had threatened Scott.

Surely, they’d also know that was just as much Derek’s fault as Gerard’s.

The apology stalls at his lips, just long enough for Celina to scoff. “She means you too, silly boy.”

Derek stares at her, and then at Eliza, who nods reassuringly at him. His lips part, but no words will come out. He can’t even begin to quantify the curious mix of emotions rising in his chest, making this throat grow tight. For a moment, his eyes burn, but he blinks it away and swallows down the swell of emotion. “I… Really?”

There’s a sad understanding to Celina’s smile. For what, Derek can’t fathom. He can’t even understand what’s transpiring in himself, let alone between them. “Of course, dear,” she soothes.

He sucks in a shaking breath. “Thank you.”

They accept his gratitude with soft smiles, and usher him up to bed.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

_Next:_

_Side A, Ch7_

_A week goes by. The town goes quiet. Jackson Whittemore is not, in fact, declared dead. His father sues the hospital for malpractice. The EMTs who declared him dead in the first place are nowhere to be found. Stiles is taken to the hospital and his injuries checked over - bruised ribs are the worst of them, the rest are deep bruises that they’re instructed to watch carefully. Stiles gives his infuriatingly generic statement._

_Another week passes. The string of murders goes quiet. The mystery of who attacked his son is a cold case even before it starts._

\------------------------------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 5.**


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